


Small Moments

by Luthien



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the most important things take place in the small, quiet moments in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Episode tag for 2x04, so includes spoilers up to and including that episode. There are also a few less direct spoilers for 2x06.

After it all, inevitably, goes to hell, and he gains an unlooked for reprieve in the promise of a humble hamburger, Rumpelstiltskin goes home to an empty house.

The gilded vase by the kitchen door is filled with roses — red roses in memory of a rose given and received in another time and place — and it glitters in the warm afternoon light streaming in through the window.

He's never used that vase before. Never needed to.

He doesn't want to see the vase, and even less the roses that it holds, but he can't bear to throw the roses out, and put the vase away. They're both proof, proof that she was ever here at all, that this house was, all too briefly, a space that they shared.

This may not be the hell he expected, but it's still purgatory.

There's a matching gilded vase filled with red, red roses — red roses for love — on the table in the breakfast room, and more in the formal dining room, and by the front door, and in the upstairs hallway. There are vases of roses throughout the house.

He leaves them all where they are.

He goes down to the basement, and has a little chat with the guest he's left down there. The man is forthcoming with information, but short on the essential details. He knows _what_ , but he doesn't know _why_ , or _where_. Limited as they are, though, his words are enough to provide Rumpelstiltskin with a starting point. He cuts through Smee's bonds when he's done with him, and lets them drop to the floor. The man scuttles off, back to whatever rat hole he calls home, not even sparing a glance for the golden lengths of rope lying at his feet. Even more cowardly than he is avaricious, then. Rumpelstiltskin's lip curls, though he's all too aware that not all of his contempt is for Smee. Not even most of it.

Rumpelstiltskin walks slowly back into the house. He goes upstairs, and stops at her door — what _was_ her door. He knocks before he enters the room. He knows he'll no more get a response now than he did the last time he knocked on this door, but he knocks anyway. It's hers, her space, and hers it will remain, whether she's here or not.

The room is just as she left it. That was only this morning, but it already seems like an age. He sits down on the edge of the bed, her side, and bends down to pull off his shoes. He lies back against the pillows, and fancies that her scent lingers there. He lies there a long time, remembering, as the shadows lengthen and afternoon shifts into evening.

That first night, when he brought her here, he'd shown her the room and then turned to withdraw, to give her her privacy. She hadn't wanted it. She'd wanted him. She'd taken him by the hand and closed the door, with him still on the wrong side of it, here, with her. Or on the right side of it, depending on which way you choose to look at it.

They came together, slowly, carefully, wonderfully — yes, he was full of wonder, at this, at her. He knew he didn't deserve what she offered - her love, her belief that he could be something better than a monster, her _self_ \- but he took it anyway. Took it _all_.

They fell asleep, that first night, tangled together in the middle of the bed.

When Rumpelstiltskin awoke, things had changed. He'd rolled away from her during the night, and now he was lying on his side, poised precariously on the very edge of the mattress. He tried to roll onto his back, and found that he couldn't. There was something pushed up against him, holding him in place.

It's an awkward thing for a man — wizard, monster, _beast_ — with a bad leg to change position while lying on his side, but most particularly when there's a short, sheer drop to the floor awaiting him should he make the wrong move. Rumpelstiltskin managed to haul himself up into a sitting position without losing either his balance or his (remaining) dignity, and twisted around to look at her.

She was lying on her back, fast asleep, arms and legs spread out like a star. It shouldn't have been possible for such a slight, little — perfect — woman to take up so much of a bed intended for two. One of her hands was pressed up quite hard against Rumpelstiltskin's back, which explained why he'd encountered an obstruction when he'd tried to roll over earlier.

He reached around to stroke his knuckles gently along the side of her face, tracing a path along her soft, warm cheek and down along the line of her jaw.

She stirred, stretched in a way that seemed to send a ripple from one end of her body to the other, the exact details of the movement tantalizingly hidden beneath the sheet, and let her head fall back against the pillow.

"Good morning," he said, forcing his fascinated gaze back to her face.

She blinked at him, sleepy eyed. "G'morning." She blinked again, the barest hint of a frown creasing her brow. "Why are you over there?"

"I woke here," he said. "It seems that you required the use of the rest of the bed," he added with a rueful little smile.

She sat upright, so suddenly that she left the sheet behind, and clapped her hands over her mouth.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" she said in consternation, her fingers slipping down and steepling beneath her chin. "I haven't spread out in bed like this in years, since I was a child. My father used to laugh, and call it my starfish pose. I didn't think… Oh dear!" She bit her lip, but as she continued to look at him, perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, bare as the day that he was born, her eyes twinkled with amusement.

"It's no matter," he said, and somehow manoeuvred himself around to a position beside her, where he could reach for her and kiss her, and she could smile, and take his face in her hands and kiss him right back.

The next morning, he woke up in the same position, right on the very edge of the mattress, but at least that time he was ready for it.

And that had been the way of it, every night that they'd shared this bed. Every morning,, Rumpelstiltskin had awoken to find himself on the brink of a precipice, and every day he'd pulled himself back from the edge. Until the morning — this morning — that she woke up to find him gone, and left the bed to look for him, and then waited for him downstairs.

Rumpelstiltskin sighs, and looks around the room. There's nothing of her in here, no evidence that this room was ever hers. A room of her own, a space of her own: that's what she needs, and what she's needed all along. He'd thought a room within his house would serve the purpose, just as a space within his life would be enough to make her happy and whole.

No wonder it all went to hell. He'd known that it would, that it was inevitable, but, with the benefit of hindsight, he's surprised that it lasted even as long as it did.

A space of her own, a life of her own. He can't deny her that. He won't deny her that. Not that it's his decision to make. No one decides her fate but her. He should have remembered that; he'll make sure not to forget it again.

He sleeps the night through, there in the spare bed that was so briefly her bed - _their_ bed. The next morning, he wakes up on his side, right on the edge of the mattress. He tries to right himself, to swing his legs over the side of the bed and sit up, but his big toe catches in the tangled sheet and his knee locks. Rumpelstiltskin lets out a cry of pain, just before he falls. The bedroom floor is hard and cold and humiliating. He's winded, but he lies there longer than he needs to before he struggles to his feet.

The next night, he sleeps in his own room, and all the nights thereafter. The other room is just the spare room now, not her room, not any more. He almost manages to convince himself of that.

***

Days pass, weeks, and the promised hamburger has been and gone. There have been other meetings, for iced tea, and pancakes and even, once, fish and chips and something like a proper dinner date. She never once invites him in at the end of the evening, and he knows better than to suggest that they come back to his house for… anything.

Each day, Rumpelstiltskin makes his way to his shop. There, he buys and sells, persuades and convinces, bargains and deals. It's all just as it's always been — except in all the ways that it's not. It's always been a means to an end, even if, at times, he's perhaps enjoyed the means more than he should, but now there are two ends to consider. He can't abandon the one in order to achieve the other. He tries to find a balance between doing what is necessary and doing what is right, but it's been so long he's not sure that he even knows what right looks like any more — except that it has clear blue eyes that won't let him look away.

The roses in the vases wither and die; he leaves them all right where they are.

Each night, he makes his way up the stairs, and pauses before what used to be her door. Sometimes, he even raises his hand to knock, but his knuckles never touch the wood. His hand falls to his side, and he continues on along the hallway to his own room.

Each night, he gets into bed and hauls himself awkwardly across the mattress until he's lying on his back, right in the middle of the bed. Each night, he falls asleep like that. Eventually. And he's still lying there, like that, when he wakes up, each and every morning. It's an even more awkward and unwieldy operation to manoeuvre himself from the middle of the bed in the morning, when his leg is stiff and sore from being in the same position all night. It's the reason why he always used to sleep on one side of the bed all those years that he slept here alone.

But still each night, he gets into bed and hauls himself awkwardly across the mattress until he's lying on his back, right in the middle of the bed.

One day, he arrives home and finds that there's something wrong. He knows it the second he opens the door. The smell of rotting vegetation is absent. A sharp glance to the left as soon as he hastens in through the door informs him that the vase in the hallway is gone, along with its contents. All through the house, it's the same story. A short investigation reveals the vases, all empty, packed away in a china cabinet. Of the roses, there is no sign.

He calls the cleaning girl and asks, far too quietly and calmly, if she happened to touch any of the vases when she was in the house today. She doesn't attempt to dissemble, and admits at once to throwing out the dead roses and putting the vases away. In exchange for her honesty — something he has learned, unwillingly and begrudgingly, to value - he fires her, softly, swiftly and irrevocably. He tells her to keep herself and that moth-eaten old donkey skin of hers far from his house in future. It's possible that he may gift her with more than just the termination of her employment contract, though, should he discover that anyone put her up to it. It's a petty move that has a whiff of Regina about it. He can't prove anything, but he can bide his time and see what opportunities may present themselves. If there's one thing Rumpelstiltskin is experienced at, it's waiting.

He doesn't bother finding a new cleaner. Magic does the job more efficiently, and lightning fast to boot. Of course, all magic comes with a price, but it only requires some small, homely spells to keep the house in order. He's already paid a far greater price than anything these little magics could exact from him.

***

More weeks pass. The days are filled with princes and pirates, vile sorceresses and viler fairies, and the quest for sons and daughters lost and still not found. And sometimes, if he's fortunate enough, part of his day, or part of his evening, is filled with _her_.

It's not enough, but even taking the crumbs from her table is vastly better than starving.

All the time, he works magic, useless magic, alone in his basement, trying to find the way to break this latest curse on the town. Eventually, he admits defeat. He can't leave Storybrooke for the moment, and he won't be leaving it anytime soon. But that doesn't mean that absolutely everyone is trapped here. Someone else could leave, someone else _can_ leave, and look for Bae on his behalf — someone who owes him a favour. All he first must do is draw her back to Storybrooke, through time and space. Just that.

It seems too easy when Emma and Mary Margaret tumble back through a portal and into the middle of Regina's garden — right on top of the apple tree — just as Rumpelstiltskin is taking his leave of the former mayor. There are screams and shouts, and broken branches and apples everywhere. The apple tree is a write-off, and Rumpelstiltskin doesn't try to hide his amusement. He's always expected Miss Swan to come back to finish the job she started when she first came to Storybrooke, and it seems he was right. And besides, it goes some way towards serving as payback for the roses.

It _is_ too easy, of course it is. The smirk dies on his face as the portal flares brightly once more, close to the ground this time, and two faces from far in the past join Snow White and her daughter. The smirk dies, but only to be replaced by something sharper and more pointed. He doesn't even need to look to know what sort of expression must be on Regina's face, as she gazes upon her _beloved_ mother once again. Right now, Rumpelstiltskin only has eyes for the man standing beside her, the man with the hook.

Rumpelstiltskin is the first to reach for his power, half a heartbeat ahead of Cora, and it's game on.

Storybrooke becomes something of a battleground for a while. Rumpelstiltskin comes out on top, once it's all more or less over, which shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who knows him. He always prevails in the end.

After he sends Hook hurtling back through a portal to who-knows-where (and who-cares-even-less) Rumpelstiltskin almost capers in glee, much like the old days, if not for the cane, and the limp, and the notable lack of leather and scales. He's relishing his victory, more than he should, he knows, but the taste of it is always sweet, and doubly so when he's vanquished someone so very… deserving as Hook. But then _she_ looks at him, just looks at him, and the crushing disappointment in her eyes as she turns away from him crushes him in turn. Sweet triumph turns to ashes in his mouth. He knows he's failed her, yet again, failed to be the man that she needs him to be. But what else could he have done? She is the woman that Rumpelstiltskin loves, the only one, before, now and always. Hook would have taken one look at her and seen his revenge served up on a platter. Rumpelstiltskin had had no choice but to act, and act swiftly, the moment that Hook first appeared out of the portal.

What else could he have done? He's being disingenuous if he pretends not to know the answer to that. The question is not _what_ , but _how_. Yet again, it's all about means and ends.

She walks away, still without saying a word.

And Rumpelstiltskin walks home to an empty house.

***

Miss Swan is, not to put too fine a point on it, pissed. With him. She didn't appreciate returning from the war-torn remains of the Enchanted Forest only to see her town turn into a battleground within seconds of her arrival. She blames him — perhaps partly just out of habit — though this hardly seems fair, considering that one of the others would surely have gotten in the first strike had he not pre-empted them.

Rumpelstiltskin asks her if she would really have preferred Cora to have been the victor. He has her there. Regina was a positively benevolent dictator compared to what her mother's rule would do to Storybrooke, and, though she protests, he can see from the look in Miss Swan's eyes that she knows he's speaking the truth.

It takes a while, and a deal of persuasion, and, finally, a deal, but at last he prevails at this, too, and Miss Swan goes forth from Storybrooke and out into the world at Rumpelstiltskin's behest. He accompanies her to the border to see her off, as do her parents and her son. There are hugs and tears — by and for everyone save Rumpelstiltskin, who stands apart from the little family gathering and taps his cane impatiently against the road — and then, at last, Miss Swan gets into her ridiculous little yellow car. She drives off, over the line and into the world, and it begins: the final step, at long last, after all this time.

Rumpelstiltskin trembles, and his eyes are glassy. He doesn't dare blink.

Snow White's prince chooses that moment to grab his wrist, unknowingly — or perhaps not so unknowingly — breaking through the moment, and allowing Rumpelstiltskin to take refuge in outrage. He shoots the prince a dagger look, and attempts to take back possession of his hand, but Charming is implacable and tightens his grip.

"You made a deal, remember?" Charming says.

"Of course," says Rumpelstiltskin, "but I don't recall agreeing to being _manhandled_."

Charming nods toward the waiting car.

"I'll come quietly," Rumpelstiltskin says, with a withering look, and Charming finally drops his hold on him. Rumpelstiltskin rubs his wrist slowly, never taking his eyes off the prince, before opening the back door of the car and getting inside. The others waste no time in piling into the car after him — Rumpelstiltskin ends up sharing the back seat with the boy, Henry — and they drive off. None of them is interested in lingering here, it seems, for which small mercy Rumpelstiltskin is duly grateful.

He's expecting to be driven straight to the sheriff's office, but instead Charming pulls up outside the library. Rumpelstiltskin frowns. He's still frowning once he and Charming are both out of the car.

"You agreed to stay out of trouble until Emma comes back, even if it means locking you up," the prince says, as though this is some sort of adequate explanation for why they are standing here.

"Yes," Rumpelstiltskin says carefully, warily. "Though 'trouble' isn't precisely the word I used."

"It's the word that Emma used. And it's the word that Belle used when she agreed to help you stay out of it until Emma returns."

"She… did." Rumpelstiltskin doesn't quite phrase it as a question. He doesn't dare. And he grips his cane tighter than is needful.

"She did."

"Well, then," Rumpelstiltskin says, and for once he's at a loss as to what to say next.

"Well, then, you'd better get in there." The prince folds his arms. That implacable look of his has returned. "Come on, I haven't got all day."

"Don't let me keep you," says Rumpelstiltskin, with a nonchalant wave of his free hand.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight until I see you go in through that door," Charming informs him with a smile that doesn't at all mask the implied threat.

"Really, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin says, shaking his head sadly. "It's almost as though you don't trust me."

"Stop delaying."

Rumpelstiltskin's hand grips the handle of his cane so tightly that his knuckles show white. He takes a step toward the library door. And another. A braver man wouldn't hesitate; it seems to take him forever to get there.

At last, he reaches the door, and opens it before Charming has a chance to provide any more gratuitous advice. The door closes behind him, and there she is. All else ceases to matter.

She's sitting at the circulation desk, chatting with a child as she stamps out his books. She glances up, sees him, and Rumpelstiltskin's hand trembles, sending his cane clattering to the floor as Belle smiles.

***


	2. Chapter 2

It's the best part of a week before Sheriff Swan returns to Storybrooke.

Rumpelstiltskin spends almost every waking moment of that time in Belle's company. They've never done that before: not here in Storybrooke, when Belle was staying in his house; not before, in the Dark Castle, after Belle promised to go with him forever. But now he stays every night in Belle's apartment, and every day he accompanies her, to the library, to lunch — at the diner, more often than not — home again at the end of the day, and anywhere else that Belle desires. Sometimes, that means a stroll down Main Street, with her hand warm in the crook of his arm, in sight of anyone in town who cares to gawk at them. Once, it even means a walk along a forest path, quiet and secluded and private enough for a pair of lovers to stop and kiss, should they feel so inclined. But it never means going to Rumpelstiltskin's house, and never, ever to his shop.

He voices a protest at this, at first, and infuses it with just enough indignation to be convincing. He has a business to run, he says, and there are always people in need of his services.

Belle points out that, given his many business interests, and quite apart from his ability to spin straw into gold, he hardly needs the minuscule income from the pawnshop to survive — and anyone in desperate need of his services will surely be able to track him down without too much trouble. But then, he's agreed to stay out of trouble while Emma's away, hasn't he?

He concedes the point, making sure to be just obvious enough in showing some reluctance.

She reminds him that the alternative to spending this time with her — an alternative he'd been ready to accept — is to be locked up behind bars until Miss Swan returns, in which case his shop would still be closed for the duration of her absence.

He holds up a hand in surrender, admitting defeat with a rueful grin that teases a smile from her.

Inwardly, he's not complaining. Well, not much. He barely misses his business dealings, not even the cut and thrust of the bargaining that has been his modus operandi for years beyond count, in both the old world and the new. Belle was right when she said that anyone desperate for his services would surely find him, though he can hardly bring himself to care if and when they call him, or show up at the library door. He has more important matters to attend to.

Resisting the pull of magic, at his fingertips again after so many years, is harder, but he manages it — more or less. If there are perhaps one or two little spells left ticking over, monitoring his shop and his house and maybe one or two other fairly — mostly — minor things, well, no one else knows, or needs to know, so what harm can it do?

Belle's eyes are still on him. He rarely allows his true thoughts to show on his face, and yet there must be something in his expression that betrays what he's thinking and causes her smile to fade as she continues to watch him. The look on her face now is knowing and sad, and he doesn't try to deceive himself as to why. She can see right through his small, reflexive deceptions, the way he misleads with a look or word or inflection. They're so habitual, these _lies_ — he can at least admit to himself that that's what they are — that he barely notices them. But she does.

"I'm… glad to be here," he says, hoping that stating the simple truth will go some way towards redeeming his latest misstep with her. "I'm grateful. More than you can know."

"I _do_ know," she says, and he's relieved to see her serious expression lighten somewhat. He feels her hand brush against his arm as she leans up to leave a soft, comforting kiss on his cheek. That's all it's meant to be, he knows that, and yet he turns his head at the last second and her lips, instead, touch his.

Mr Gold was not a passionate man. He was calm and controlled. His every word, every action, even his every expression, was deliberate and premeditated. But Rumpelstiltskin is not Mr Gold, though he still wears the mask of the pawnbroker when it suits him, and his passions, as ever, run deep.

The kiss starts out as a soft, slightly awkward brush of the lips, but it doesn't stay that way. Their mouths find each other again and then again, a tentative question and answer, but at last their lips meet full on and cling, and things turn quickly passionate. She's warm, all of her pressed up close against all of him. It's more than he could or would have asked for; it's not enough. She makes a little sound in her throat as her fingers slide up into his hair, and it's all he can do to stop himself from slipping a hand under her dress to touch her properly, to stop himself from pushing her up against the nearest wall and—

He breaks away from her, his breath rough and ragged. He clutches the smooth handle of his cane, fixing his eyes on the bright glint of gold as he struggles to compose himself. This is not the time for such things. It's not that he doesn't want her — because of course he does want her, far too much — but simply that there are more important matters to consider in this situation than the purely carnal. There are more important matters to consider in this situation than… almost anything.

All of it, all of his power, both magical and otherwise, pales into insignificance beside the fact that Belle offered this, she _chose_ this, all of this time together with him, _for_ him — time when he would otherwise have been watching and waiting, and driving himself half mad with anticipation and dread. She invited him into her world and gave him a chance to prove himself on her terms. She made space for him. And, while he knows that in the long term this won't work out any better than when he attempted to keep her confined within the boundaries of his own life, just the fact that she offered at all makes him feel… His eyes sting and his breath catches in his throat. He's almost giddy with it, this unfamiliar feeling. Elation? Might it even be happiness? But it's countered by a hard knot of nervous apprehension in the pit of the stomach that is all to do with love and loss, and not all of it is to do with Belle. Not even most of it.

He feels the touch of a hand on his shoulder.

"I should get some sleep," Belle says. "We both should."

Rumpelstiltskin clears his throat. "Yes, we should," he agrees, without looking at her. He can hear the slight smile in her voice, and he doesn't want to see it reflected in her eyes. And if there should be regret there, along with, or even instead of, the smile, well, it's probably better for both of them if he doesn't see that.

"Good night, then," she says, sounding wistful now. She stays right where she is, waiting. Waiting for him.

She doesn't say anything more, and neither does he. The silence between them grows, stretches until it's awkward.

_Coward._

She's biting her lip, uncertain, when at last he forces himself to look at her again.

"Good night, Belle," he says, and quickly turns away before she takes the opportunity to smile at him, and undo him completely.

The bed in the spare room is narrow and low to the ground, the mattress thin and old. Rumpelstiltskin ignores the relative lack of comfort. He's slept in much worse places in his time: places that were most definitely not separated only by a wall from the sleeping place of a beautiful woman who smiles on him and welcomes his kisses.

It's a long, hard, largely sleepless night, that first night. He doesn't remember falling asleep, sometime long after midnight, but in the morning he wakes to find himself poised right on the edge of the mattress. Of course, in a bed so small and narrow, that's hardly surprising. Rumpelstiltskin hauls himself up into a sitting position before he can fall. The distance to the floor isn't far, but the landing would still be unpleasant, and the getting up again even worse.

He reaches for his cane, rises, and goes about his morning ablutions in the tiny bathroom. Once dressed, he goes to investigate the sounds of activity in the kitchen and finds Belle pouring hot water from the kettle into the teapot. She smiles, a little uncertainly. He smiles back, and her uncertain look turns instantly to one of happy relief. It makes his withered old heart twist in his chest to witness it. Her happiness is a payment out of all proportion for something so worthless.

And so the day begins, much as, he knows, it will continue.

He doesn't again suggest visiting his shop, or his house. But that doesn't mean he doesn't think about them, and everything they hold — everything they represent.

***

It's early evening, very nearly a week after Sheriff Swan's departure, and Rumpelstiltskin is experiencing something less than complete equanimity. He's had seven days of trying — and mostly failing — not to watch and wait, and six nights of trying — and mostly failing — to sleep on the hard, narrow little spare bed in Belle's apartment. In all that time, he's managed to stay out of trouble, to use the sheriff's less than eloquent phrasing. He thinks it may be the longest time he's gone in a century or more without making any sort of deal with anyone. Not that various people haven't tried in the course of the week — and he includes himself in their number. But of course there are deals already underway that have yet to play out to the end, and those almost make up for the lack.

Belle is in the act of locking the library door when the unmistakable sound of a certain car engine in the near distance reaches Rumpelstiltskin's ears. He freezes in place, uncertain of what to do and where to go, or even how to be. He's had centuries to prepare for this moment, but part of him would dearly love to run into the library right now, to gather his thoughts and prepare some more — and possibly hide in the stacks for a bit while he's at it.

He's not ready; he doubts he ever will be.

The little yellow car comes round the corner at speed and screams to halt in front of the library. Belle's hand finds his. Miss Swan gets out of the car, from the passenger side. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes narrow, considering. Why would she—

The door on the driver's side opens. A man gets out, and everything else fades away to nothing.

He's of average height, this man, though still taller than Rumpelstiltskin — but then, so was Milah. He's not in his first youth, either, which comes as a faint surprise for some reason that makes no real sense. He has brown hair, this man. Brown hair with the barest peppering of grey, not entirely unlike Rumpelstiltkin's own hair.

This man could be Bae, should be Bae. Rumpelstiltskin so _wants_ him to be Bae. But maybe, as once before, Rumpelstiltskin is simply seeing what he wants to see. The compass should have led Miss Swan to Bae, but that still doesn't guarantee that she found the right man, that _this_ is the right man. There is still more than enough margin for error, all the way along the line from here to there and back again. Rumpelstiltskin reminds himself of how things turned out the last time he tried this, the last time he let himself be vulnerable before a man who claimed to be his son, and caution keeps him silent and still.

The man takes a hesitant step towards him, looks him in the eye, uncertain but unafraid — so like, so _very_ like, his beautiful, bold boy — and all at once Rumpelstiltskin is ready to abandon caution.

Bae was his mother's son in looks, and something better and braver than either of his parents in character. There was little enough of his father in him anywhere, save for his eyes. Deep brown eyes, a darker, warmer version of the eyes that look back at Rumpelstiltskin from the mirror each morning.

Deep brown eyes look back at him now, out of the face of a stranger. Rumpelstiltskin's defences crumble into nothing. He opens his mouth, but it's Belle who speaks — which is probably just as well, since Rumpelstiltskin seems to have run right out of words for the moment.

"Perhaps the two of you should have a private talk?" she suggests, looking from one to the other. "You can use the library if you like," she adds, and squeezes Rumpelstiltskin's hand.

"After you," Rumpelstiltskin says. He gestures toward the library door, indicating for the other man to precede him. It's very nearly like something Mr Gold would do, all coolly formal politeness, but his voice cracks on the last word and betrays him. This tiny, commonplace courtesy is the first thing — _may_ be the first thing — he's said to his son in years, centuries, _lifetimes_. It feels like an inauspicious beginning.

The man gives him another long look, and then his eyes flicker down briefly to where Rumpelstiltskin's hand is still gripped tightly in Belle's. He still says nothing as he turns on his heel and leads the way into the library. Rumpelstiltskin follows him inside.

The door closes quietly behind them, and then they're alone. They stand in the middle of the floor, not close enough to touch — or maybe just not close enough — but still closer than Rumpelstiltskin finds comfortable. Who knows this man's reasons for coming here, regardless of his true identity? Rumpelstiltskin wouldn't blame Bae for wanting to do him harm, or for wanting to do something to him of a more final nature. And if the man is not Bae… Well.

They stand there and just look at each other. The man's face looks serious and sad, and a hundred other nameless emotions besides, though there is little there that suggests the threat of — immediate — violence. Rumpelstiltskin can't even begin to imagine what sort of expression must be showing on his own face right now. He lets his gaze drift over to the shelves on the far wall, mostly because he doesn't have the strength — the courage — to keep looking the man in the eyes. They could be familiar, those eyes. He wants them to _be_ familiar, and the fact that he can't remember for sure… Well, it could be just a case of his seeing what he so wants to see, but, either way, he can't bear to look.

And so he looks at the shelves instead. So many books. Hundreds, thousands of them, and all the pages inside adding up to thousands and millions of words. There's a quiet irony in there somewhere, considering that neither he nor the other man seems capable of any words at all. Libraries are supposed to be quiet places, but right now this one feels as silent as the tomb.

"I—" Rumpelstiltskin begins, just as the other man takes a step towards him and asks, "Do you really not know me, Papa?"

Rumpelstiltskin looks up into brown eyes and his own eyes prick with tears. There are so many questions he had planned to ask when this moment came, but they've all flown right out of his head. He had intended to gather together the man's replies, to assemble what evidence he could, to weigh it up and then carefully, cool-headedly decide if this man could indeed be his missing son and not simply another imposter.

All of his careful preparations turn to so much dust in the face of the man's question: Does he not know his own son? He doesn't know how to answer. It's been so long, he doesn't trust his memories to be accurate. Rumpelstiltskin doesn't know; he merely hopes.

"Papa?" The man says, and steps even closer. "Can't you be brave, just this once?"

Rumpelstiltskin trembles, because really, when all is said and done, that question is all the confirmation that he needs.

The man takes Rumpelstiltskin by the shoulder — _Bae_ takes him by the shoulder — and the next moment their arms close around each other in a tight, desperate hug. Rumpelstiltskin closes his eyes and finally lets the tears fall.

The words that follow are broken and inadequate, on both sides, but they're close enough to what they need to be, too, as the two of them slowly, painfully, share the pieces of lives that have been lived apart for so very long.

Rumpelstiltskin doesn't try to gloss over all the things he's done, terrible things, many of them, and not all of which he's come to regret. But really, the most important thing, the _only_ thing that matters is to make sure that Bae knows that all of it, everything, was for him. And after that's been said not once, or twice, but many times… Well, Rumpelstiltskin knows he doesn't deserve forgiveness, but he gives voice to the forlorn hope that's never quite died through all the long, bitter years of separation and asks anyway.

Bae's answer is a long time coming. The seconds of silence after Rumpelstiltskin makes his hesitant request feel nearly as long as all the years that have passed since last he laid eyes on his boy. And then Bae speaks, just three short words, words that his father can hardly bear to hear. Rumpelstiltskin closes his eyes and draws a deep breath.

_Maybe. In time_.

It's more, far more, than he deserves. Rumpelstiltskin lets his breath out on a shuddering sigh. It's over, he realises, though it's still too soon to feel anything like real belief. After all this time, all these years and centuries of sacrifice and single-minded purpose, it's over. He's found Bae, and he's said what he had to. And Bae has heard the truth and, against all expectations, hasn't turned away from his father. Against all likelihood, this time, when it matters most of all, hope has triumphed.

"But you still brought magic here," Bae says when at last Rumpelstiltskin brings himself to look again. His eyes — those brown eyes that were never quite forgotten — are as serious and stern as Rumpelstiltskin has ever seen them. "The whole point in coming here was to find a place without magic, somewhere I could have my father back. So: why?"

Of course, there is a sting in the tail.

The question hangs between them. Rumpelstiltskin tries to find the words to answer it. He does. But he still hasn't uttered a word after long seconds — too long and too many of them — have passed.

And then time runs out.

There's a loud bang outside, and something crashes against the library, so hard that the wall shudders and the door is left in splintered pieces hanging half off its hinges. The sheriff pushes past the broken door and races into the room.

Rumpelstiltskin sends her a sharp glance.

"Hook," she says grimly in answer to his unspoken question. "He's got Belle."

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Nym for looking this over.


End file.
